thinking

02.06.2020 - audio and rewrites

in , , ,

This post is later than intended.

I have spent a lot of time speaking to myself over the past couple of weeks. My evening runs have slowed to walks and I take my microphone with me; those were not good recordings but I needed the practice of speaking the pieces.

I recorded over and over, opting to work in my car as it was the quietest place that I could access due to lockdown restrictions. I had to record at night when traffic was stopped and people were quiet. The rooster next door had other plans, as did the smaller birds.

I spoke, I swore, I spoke some more. I recorded for hours and lost the audio as my computer over heated. I borrowed my partners professional microphone and used that instead.

I edited.

The works did not flow from my mouth as easy as I would have liked, so I re-wrote them. And re-spoke them. Over and over.

I don't have space for them all but there are some singles here:

I edited some together as material groups, below are some examples:

I don't know whether to leave these as clusters or to create a large audio piece of the book format. I will try both and decide for the exhibition.

I like the idea of creating a piece that could be dipped in and out of, if it was in a physical gallery space it would be on a loop, so audience members would pick up headphones and join the track at the moment it was playing rather than at the beginning or the end.

27.02.2020 - 10.03.2020 - Photostudio session

in , , , ,

Thursday's are the end of the working week in the UAE, it's a quiet day at work. I utilised the time to make use of the photographic studio at work. Precariously transporting all of my tiles to the studio in plastic tubs, shrouded in tissue and bubble wrap, slowing my SUV down over bumps to preserve my precious load.

I considered the state of the works and the black paper background so begain shooting the 'clean' works first, starting with the books.

My leporello books have been hoarded in plastic folders since the end of MA2, their only outing since their conception was the photo session on my living room floor for submission. I felt sorry for their neglected forms; their conjoined pages sleeping peacefully on top of each other or perhaps uncomfortable at the proximity and lack of breathing space, at least if they could breath that is.

Towering in a perilous pile,
teetering on the verge of collapse
I watch you
and pray
for one more moment
just a minute more of time
to admire your form
the innate elegance
of your form
stacked
displaying all your components
subtle foibles
I snap away
capturing this moment infinity
until you tumble down

All of the Books - Stacked

All of the Books - Stacked

Restricted Books

Leporello Books - unrestricted I

Leporello Books - unrestricted II

Leporello Books - detail

I splay you open
unceremoniously
you tumble on top of each other
looking for support you cannot give
As your insides slump to the ground
Your mass is sumptuous
A fibre, graphite and tape assemblage

Soap Faux Book I

Soap Faux Book I

Soap Faux Book II

Soap - Stacked

disappointingly only a few piece of soap tile, although their modesty allowed for opportunity. A faux book form as created, a consideration to display, to binding, and construction. how would this function, book of soap? How would it be held together, how long would it last. could the pages be turned, and if they could what or who's story would be told?

Wax -Stacked I

Wax -Stacked I

Wax - Stacked II

Wax and Plaster - Stacked I

Wax and Plaster - Stacked II

Wax and Plaster - Stacked III

Plaster - Stacked II

Plaster - Stacked I

Then I stack my wax tiles. These precious morsels of carbon and paraffin, flammable, meltable, solid yet fragile. Tiles of wax impregnated with drawing materials, monoprint combinations of hot liquid and cold pulverulence.

Automatically they take on a taxonomy of tone, the weight of the black pigment heavy at the bottom. This needs to be reset, a second session of differing taxonomies, of weight distribution, of material contrasts.

The light glimmers through their luminous forms, dissipating as the pigment consumes it lower down.

Steadily the plaster tiles of small form are placed neatly in their monolithic form, rising up to greet the wax stronghold, but missing the pinnacle.

Their codification is the antithesis of the wax, they lack luminosity, they are dense in their opacity, they are brittle in their fragility and smooth and powdery in their texture.

Wax and Plaster - Stacked IV

Wax and Plaster - Stacked IV

The large tiles complete the line up, their absorbing facades are hidden by each other, one lucky subject is exposed for admiration. How does it read to know there is the possibility of more faces to be seen, hidden in a mass of tiles. Multiples defined by the single that is credited with the dominant allocation.

Plaster - Stacked Precariously I

Plaster - Stacked Precariously I

Plaster - Stacked Precariously II

To contrast the classifications and grouping of the previous displays, These large tiles are given an opportunity to communicate. Piled high with a twist, exposing corners and edges that were previously unseen in the towers before. Dialogue ensues between the jostling of placements, the fighting for attention and consideration.

Tiles - Stacked Taxonomies I

Tiles - Stacked Taxonomies I

Tiles - Stacked Taxonomies II

Tiles - Stacked Taxonomies III

Finally the small tiles are arranged in aesthetics forms, with similar treatments grouped together in camaraderie. A bland a none taxing for of display. No mystery here, purely techniques that may or may not be deemed successful.

04.02.2020 - Gertrude Stein

in , , ,

Your words seem nonsensical but touch something deep inside, 
they resonate. 

That moment when you meet someone and you talk for hours and time passes without a blink. 

Leaves you longing for more. 
For the next moment to talk and share and be. 
For the next sentence to hang from, the next word to be uttered. 

The connection of sparks gathering as the electricity surges. 

The moment that you meet someone and you want them to stay forever and you want that forever to be now, for this moment to be never-ending, lasting a lifetime. 

When you search for them, at every opportunity, the connection, like magnets; the graphite standing on edge as the field comes into sight. 
The moment the attraction of mind is greater and the arousal is piqued. 

When the rhythm of your heart is the pace of their words and the tingle in your fingers is the breath from their mouth and the look in your eyes is the glistening of their skin. 
                                            *It started with Gertrude Stein*

13.10.2019 - ladder

in , , ,

In college we had to bring a ladder to class. This ladder became a companion in various creative activities, standing on top of it reciting poetry, dropping paint from it, carrying it with us as we moved around the studio. My ladder was small, I don’t like being at height, I have an urge to step off, to jump.

The last task was to paint a portrait of our ladders. We were given a large roll of paper. I diligently set to work, painting what this ladder meant to me. The background was black and in beautiful detail I rendered a realistic portrait of this tiny ladder at the bottom of the page, 1;1 scale. I was marked down for a lack of creativity as my peers had strewn multi-coloured paint and pattern at their abstract depictions of ladders.

I think about the painting all the time, it was so personal to me, embodying my fears, the discomfort of each task on top of it. The feelings of isolation from the group of creatives pushing the boundaries. My boundaries were pushed but in very different ways that were not considered valid by those in power.

I found a ladder in the store at work. A moment took me and I had to photograph it. The store was in the photo studio so I pulled it out and placed it on the black platform.

12.10.2019 - paintings, pattern layers - process

in , , ,

I have a book. An ongoing project. Years now. It holds patterns. Some made from memory, some made memories, others from images, most made from its predecessors, layered and subtracted to create something new. Copulations of patterns, children of each other, incestuous.

Sometimes they are applied to painting. Leaping from the sketchbook as projections. Traced by hand, defects encouraged, manipulating the patterns origins to fit the new landscape.

To save paintings these patterns come as a support team, adding scaffolding to the layers, bridging gaps, filling and creating space, moments, opportunities. Gathering the existing layers under their structures, embracing with their geometric arms.

Added slowly, a game of infiltration. Allowing the layers to settle around their new partners.

Paint and freedoms of movement are added to other canvases. A family affair as she explores her creativity, not holding on to the imagery she diligently paints over her initial image ‘just like mummy’ as it doesn’t matter, she says, I will always paint more.

I talk to her about permanence and temporality, we discuss if things need to last forever, she thinks this is bad as it will go mouldy so it best if we don’t last for ever. But she will miss us when we are gone. A brief hug and she continues to blank out her images with grey paint ‘to help mummy’

09.10.2019 - sometimes we make awful work

in , , ,

An urge, normally ignored, materials need to be touched, their texture satisfies. Grainy powders smoothed with moisture and movement, applied to board that yields control of its taut surface under the dampness.

The process satisfies but it’s outcomes leaves the desire for more. A disappointing display, a performance that enticed and result that is lack lustre. Sometimes we make awful work. Its left like a dirty secret in the piles on studio desks, at the back of sketchbooks, placed in bins to be removed. Despicable that our hands create something unwanted.

The words added from a collect pile for colour and became an poem similar to high school attempts. The words float around, there is something here but it needs to be coached. Perhaps a new approach.

I turn to sound. Reading and repeating the words. It’s late. They are asleep. I whisper these words of betrayal. Layering them in the manner my mis-functioning mind layers and collates my thoughts and worries, meddling until some clarity appears.

Sometime we make awful work
Reverse considerations
Can part a moments
Unpredictable history
Conflicts came between
Unceasing patterns
And past
What should
Without possible attempt
An aborted message be